“Thank you,” I said, taking my drink. How long could I nurse it? Maybe ten minutes. And I was thirsty. But I couldn’t be rude and reject the glass, nor could I sound judgmental and tell him the real reason I wasn’t drinking. So I figured I’d just hold it then go home sober enough to remove my mascara and read myself to sleep.
Francine took the glass from me. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.” She made an apology face at Officer Hotpants. “She’s allergic to lemon. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“Cool, man, I hate lemon too.” Officer Hotpants took the glass. “They look prettier than they taste, you know what I’m saying?”
He cocked his glowing handsome face at me. I had no idea what he was trying to say.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling back.
“Larry, honey,” Francine said, pushing Larry to the bar. “Can you get Vivian her usual?” She winked.
“Come on.” Larry patted my setup on the shoulder, and they went to the bar.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Baseball’s on,” she said, indicating the TV behind the bar. “He likes sports. You can talk about that.”
Francine didn’t know there was no baseball in January, because she thought of sports as played by other people and watched by men.
And she thought baseball was just another sport, which was incorrect.
I followed her gaze to the TV, where Youder stood on the Dodger Dreamfield in East Hollywood and said something, which was translated into the snaking black bars of closed captioning. I was going to explain to Francine that that wasn’t baseball, it was an event I’d been at just hours before, when I saw what was behind him.
Me, taking a ball from Dash Wallace.
He was ten times more popular Youder was, but he didn’t give interviews. He hadn’t appeared in front of the cameras to accept any of his three Golden Gloves. He was never on television unless it was on the field during a game or in the background of some charity event giving a fan a ball, and when he made the gossip column with this girl or that, he wasn’t facing the camera.
I watched myself tell him to fuck off and turn my back to him.
I watched him stare at me walking away.
I watched him put his fingers to his lips and blow me a kiss before shaking his hand as if I was too hot to handle.
Then it cut away to a beer commercial.
The whole incident was so small on the screen it wouldn’t have been noticed by most people, but it was now taking up more space in my head than any other single event in my life.
Poor Officer Hotpants. He didn’t stand a chance against the heat of my new fantasies. Oh sure, the kiss could have been a “fuck off, lady,” and the shaking hand had shades of “bitch with a hot temper,” but it didn’t. Not on the HD screen. I could see it all because I was looking, and he thought I was cute. Even in my loose jeans and Hobart Elementary hoodie. Even with no mascara.
I sucked down my Sprite and claimed a headache, then I drove home on the empty freeway with Dash Wallace on the brain.
four
Vivian
Despite my fantasies, it never occurred to me that I’d actually see Dash again. I was a public school librarian with a reading habit, and he was a mysterious and gorgeous athlete with the grace of the wind. Our paths had no reason to cross. So I just put my hands under the sheets and took care of my business, letting the whole thing fade over the weekend.
Except that one time I looked up Youder’s interview on the Internet. Which I counted as one time even though I watched it about a hundred. I never closed the window and looked it up again. So, one time. Blow kiss. Blow kiss. Blow kiss.
He for sure thought I was hot, which was true in my little world, but from a guy who could have anyone he wanted, it was a Big Deal.
I bounced into work on Monday with springs in my shoes and a smile on my face.
Jim was getting coffee in the faculty room.
“Good morning!” I said, dropping a bag of apples on the counter.
“You look chipper.”
“I am. It’s just nice out. You know, the smog’s all gone in winter, and the sky’s blue. The air’s crisp but not too cold.”
“Probably a good time to ask you for a favor.” He poured half and half from a tiny plastic pre-serve cup and ripped open another.
“Another Dreamfield trip?”
“Ah, no. I have this thing on Thursday night. The Petersen’s doing a fundraiser party, and I’m a donor.”
The Petersen Automotive Museum stored classic and prototype cars in its comic-book behemoth building on Fairfax and Wilshire. He couldn’t make enough to donate that kind of cash. We worked for Los Angeles Unified, after all.
I grabbed a cup from the stack by the coffee pot. “How much do you have to donate to get invited to stuff?”
“Small potatoes. But I won a raffle. It’s formal. Want to go with me? Not a date or anything. Just I have two tickets and no sisters.”
“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”
“Not anymore.”
“Ugh, sorry.” After my breakup with Carl, simple sympathy was all I’d wanted to hear, so that was all I gave.
“Yeah, well…” He drifted off as if looking for words.
Seeing a big muscular guy broken-hearted hurt my insides. I blamed it on too many romance novels. “You all right?”